Metal Birds
by ClockChaser1945
Summary: War was waging on the mainland by the time it hit him. Arthur couldn't hide from it anymore, and even though he had been told that, many, many times, it didn't click until now. Now, he was in France, wondering why exactly he had come out of his century long hiding. Britain had been bombed, and Francis was missing. And he knew it was all his fault. (Wingtalia, Historical Hetalia)
1. Prologue

**Thank you for choosing to read _Metal Birds_ , I really do appreciate it! You wouldn't believe how much research this baby is taking. I'm not finished yet, but she's a gem, I promise. **

**NOTE: This is a Historical Hetalia AU (with a twinge of Wingtalia, because why not) and these reflect real past events in order to better inform the fandom of the atrocities of World War 2. If Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart and the accompanying stories did not, I promise this one will. I really hope this one gets as far.** **If ANY facts or translations are incorrect, please let me know! Accuracy is key here!**

 **ALSO, sadly I don't own Hetalia or the Wingtalia AU, because if I did then this sure as hell would be canon.  
ON TO THE STORY!**

* * *

An angel stared bitterly up at clear starry skies.  
Honestly, he wouldn't call himself an angel. So the only other words he had to cling onto were the final words of a friend. Aves homo sepien. It had mostly been a joke, but it was more than enough comfort to spur him on in such trying times.  
He shifted slightly, a grimace coming across his face. His gaze was redirected down to the church he sat in, and the few others scattered about. No on said anything, too preoccupied with attempting to make up for what sanity they had lost while attempting to surive. That was all that mattered now. Surival.  
Surival of the fittest had proved to be a true claim in these last years.  
His habit for this was absentmindedly fiddling with the strap on his age old radio, which was probably an old model by now, but it still worked. That, and going through his few belongings.

As his eyes moved about, they landed on the man sitting next to him. He was worn, tired, a badly shaven face projected in moonlight, messy blonde hair pulled into a messy bun at his neck, swaddled in a military coat and his own feathers. He did not move, but the winged man knew he was not dead either. Dying, maybe. But not dead. Not dead was good enough.

The winged man let out a sigh, raising a shaking and bandaged hand to run through his dirtied, blonde hair. Tired green eyes danced arcoss the bricks and fissures of the place, and as his eyes landed on the alter, crumbling at his feet, he felt a pang of homesickness. He may not have ever recalled being in heaven, but he did remember one place. A Cathedral, one which he had lived in for almost a hundred years; desperately biding his time so he wouldn't have to be here like this. Cold, hungry, wounded, and -even though it was just a feeling- alone. He turned to his knapsack at the though, simultaneously bringing his coat closer around himself in an attempt to stay warm.

He pulled an aging book from the ripped fabric that made up the bag. The cover was cracked leather, stiffened from the dissuse it had suffered in the last years. The pages were mottled and dirtied, some encasing dried mud, others containing leaves and flowers; while still others held letters. The first was the letter that had gotten him in the whole mess in the first place. Others were corrispondance to a companion on the other side of the planet. As he thumbed through those pages, he felt almost remorseful.  
The pages were tattered, not all the same material. Mud stained, ink stained, water stained, blood stained. All of them had their differences.

The winged man sighed inwardly to himself as he reread the most recent letter. Things weren't calming as well in the Pacific.  
As he moved to stuff the letter away, he paused, seeing faded penmanship on the inside of the back cover. He could barely make out it out over the many damages, and after a moment his heart leapt into his throat. Amongst the many messages, now destroyed, the one in the far right center, scrawled, was evident.

 _'Safe travels, and may we meet again soon. -Marie'_

He was wordless in the realization that those few words had lasted ten years, and he had never known they were there. As he stared at the tiny letters, the pang grew more evident. He didn't know if the cathedral was even still standing.

Suddenly, the ragged oaken door of the roofless church opened, and the occupants tensed. He leapt to his feet, ready to charge and fend for himself and the others, but his shoulders and wings slumped as he realized the young man was no threat.

His tanned face was solemn, and his blonde hair was a tousled mess. He wore a pair of aviator's goggles, one lens fractured; and a woolen jacket that had been cut into to make room for his large golden-blonde wings.

Everyone glanced up.  
There weren't many of them in the room. Most of them were wounded, or half asleep. The young man in the doorway spoke, breathing heavily as he did so; shivering from what little comfort the night sky had provided.

"The bridge is ours."

Everyone realeased a breath no one knew they were holding.

But no one smiled.

"How long do we have?" He spoke, absentmindedly wrapping his finger about the leather strap on the radio.  
"We only need to go a day or so longer. Depending on how long their defense holds up; the krauts will be in our hands pretty soon."  
At that, some of them glanced away. The brother and sister in the corner shuddered, the man with the wounded back looked down; and the two women seemed to slouch. The starch blonde man seemed to tighten his hold on his coat, and the man tending to the wounded one's back seemed to furrow his brow slightly.  
Most of all, the man next to him grimaced, the goateed face twisting into one of resentment.

He let out a breath, holding onto the healing wound on his waist.  
"We might fly ahead then. To retrieve the others." He suggested, again messing with the strap on the radio.  
"I'll fly with you." The young man with the gashes across his arm stated.  
"I as well." Said the taller man.  
"We will fly at dawn then."

Again, there was silence. Little more than light breathing.

There wasn't any sound for a long while. Finally, the sister in the corner started singing softly.  
"...when I rose to the clear blue skies,  
My siblings sang, and so did I.  
We promised never to raise blade;  
And swore never to lay shame,  
To our siblings and their ways.  
We held our heads and remained bold.  
But those were promises of old..."


	2. Chapter 1

Arthur stared up at the overcast skies, cross legged and silent as he sat in the old bell tower. He had come up to the place as he always did, after it had stopped ringing. Only the man who rang the bells every hour knew that he sat there.  
It was his ritual. He would sit there in the bell tower of the old cathedral, staring down and about at the slowly growing and aging city. He managed his way up there the moment the bells stopped ringing. Sometimes, he could hear the dull thrumming of their chimes still resounding about their copper bodies. He would bring nothing with him but his thoughts and his weary emerald eyes. They shone with an age that did not match his appearance whatsoever; and his mind softly tossed barely comprehensible thoughts between its nonexistant hands.

The bell man always shouted up at him that the hour had passed when he came. It was to prevent a repitition of an incident that had occoured a few years before. It had resulted in Arthur being nearly deafened, and nonetheless very startled. The unnanounced ringing of cathedral sized bells was none too calming up close.

He enjoyed watching, knowing that no one was aware he was there. He came, rain or shine; snow or sleet. He had seen many, many things. He'd seen the carriages turn slowly into automobiles, and the cobblestone streets slowly wear down flat; riddled with ruts and paths from the traffic of both wheels and feet.  
He had seen winter cascade down upon the rooftops; his feet still colder than the snow that had taken the city. But he would stay. He would stay the whole hour, and he would not bother with anything else other than his mind.  
He would watch as young couples marched cheerily past battle worn veterans, weary old men and comfort seeking widows. He had seen children both well dressed and ragged. They would peruse the streets differently, though they always acted as if the streets were theirs. He had seen top hats and bonnets converge back and forth across the square. He would watch as birds of all shapes and sizes and coloration darted from rooftops and into the vast open sky.  
Yet, he did not leave to join them and their free spirited ways.

Sometimes, he was so still and calm they approached him. They didn't mind when he stretched their wings gently to look at the bones and feathers that had been sewn so cleverly together by a force he did not know.

They were much different than his own wings, he would remark silently to himself. His wings were so big and heavy he had to allow them to slump off the edge and back into the cavernous opening the bells hung over. They were pale, dirty blonde. It was a color very similar -if not exactly the same as his hair. There were large black bars that stretched across the larger feathers of his wings, breaking along each edge into slightly riveted patterns.

Like a seabird's wings, the bell man said.  
The wings jutted from his lower back smoothly; some small feathers even peppering his spine. They didn't bother him so much. His wings were so large they dragged behind him when he walked. He was clean shaven. He didn't like facial hair, as much as he found it amusing and sometimes fitting on the faces of the men so far below. He kept his hair short as well, as respect to those who cared for him. It was wild, and undone; hard to tame. If it was a little longer it would be easy to take care of, but he didn't bother asking if he could grow it out. It didn't bother him, if it kept those around him happy.

"The hour's up!" The bell man called up, and Arthur glanced down.  
"Alright, I'll be down!"  
With that, he stood, before leaning forward slightly and using his feet to push off the ledge. He kept his wings spread slightly, wide enough for him to glide, but short enough so the feathers didn't bend against the walls of the tower. He floated down simply, sometimes using his feet to kick back from the walls and avoid running into them.

Arthur finally plopped to the ground as he glanced up at the bell man.  
The bell man's name was Joshua. Joshua was kind, middle aged and intelligent. Even given the simple job he had, as soon as he finished ringing the bells he made it his duty to walk with Arthur about the church for a while, talking.

He was an odd man, Arthur thought. But he was the source of Arthur's knowledge of the outside world.  
He had been taught how to read and write. He knew how, to him it was easy and soothing. But Joshua brought him more than merely a bible and the priest's records of this and that. Joshua brought him pamphlets. Advertisments, newspapers. A radio. The radio hadn't been all Joshua's doing, however. There was a nun named Marie who often cared for children down the road. She and Joshua had decided it would be a fine gift for him. They were both aware that even though he was nervous to step foot outside the large oaken doors, he was still bewildered by the world outside the cathedral.  
But he had withdrawn from it for many reasons, long ago.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to get a newspaper for you today." The man stated. Arthur merely shook his head.  
"It's alright. You know, you don't need to get anything for me."  
"No, no. While it's funny to see you try and figure out what some of us are talking about, I'd rather you stay up to date."  
"Well, thank you. How is your wife?"  
"She's doing well. She became part of a knitting group, to help prepare."  
"Ah. I've been wondering why she hasn't been around here lately."

Arthur stared down at the old worn carpet on the floor, before his vision drifted about to the candelabras along the hall. It wouldn't be long until they arrived to the Babtismal. Then, Arthur would have to leave in order to help prepare for the evening meal.  
"What's the word from the Mainland?"  
"It's not good, I'm afraid." Joshua sighed lightly, before stopping.  
Arthur stopped as well, glancing over at the man. His highly held wings sloped slightly.  
"Is something the matter?"  
"Well... if things really are going to be as bad as they seem... with the Germans seeming so active now and all... I might have to go into service. For defense. And it's not all bad, I suppose. I'm just worried. I'm worried about Elizabeth. And everyone here."  
Arthur paused a moment, before offering a small smile. "I'm sure we'll all be fine. I can keep watch over Elizabeth if need be. And we'll pray for you. We all will."  
Joshua appeared reassured by that. "Thank you."  
"Of course!" Arthur smiled again, attempting to lighten the very suddenly darkened mood. He began to walk again. "Perhaps later tomorrow, you can take some pastries from here to Elizabeth. She must be working hard."  
He was met with a nod and a strained smile. "Yes, I'll do that. You keep your ear on the radio then, alright?"  
"Of course." He answered simply.

They rounded the corner, and Joshua let out a small sigh, before turning to face Arthur with the same strained smile.  
"I'll see you tomorrow." He assured, patting the slightly shorter man's shoulder.

"Goodbye until then!" Arthur called after a moment's hesitation, before watching as the man vanished down the hall.


End file.
